Of Education
by myselfonly
Summary: Gimli is ill, and Legolas is being... well. Legolas. Sometimes all it takes is a forced interlude to learn a bit more about those closest to us. Shameless friendship fic, perhaps a bit Legolas centric but only because poor Gimli needs a bit of a break.


**I was a bit poorly recently, and this appeared. Shameless friendship fluff, because it's the only flavour of one-shot I know how to write.**

**Yet another snapshot of my two favourite friends, and you can thank both Lindir's Ghost and Vanimalion for helping me alter this from a very poorly put together piece of nonsense to what you see before you. I have tinkered extensively since they have seen it though so if it's rubbish, it's my fault and not theirs. My special thanks to them both - if you enjoy anything I have created then you can thank them yourselves by going and reading and reviewing something they have written. I wouldn't be here without them.**

**Anyway, here it is. Gimli is ill, and Legolas is being Legolas.**

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Spring is in full sway, and although the air is sharp and cool the sunlight is golden and gentle. I lie on a ground thick with new green shoots. The brittle and brown leaves that have carpeted the forest floor through the winter are lifted high from their resting places deep in the tree roots, torn and then discarded by pale, narrow blades. They will be bluebells and snowdrops soon, and this place will be a carpet of colour.

Early buds decorate branch and bough. Skeletal, nude arms are softened by a pale haze of spring green and although it smells of cold, wet soil there is also the smell of rising sap warmed by the sun. The sky is gentle blue broken by white clouds cut sharp against the light, there is a gentle breeze... it is a beautiful morning.

On a day like this, all worries can be forgotten. On a day like this, years slip away and the Song of the Valar is loud and clear - clearer than on any other.

I see and feel none of it, for I am running the worst fever of my adult life.

I feel every stone beneath me; every twig and gnarled root prodding into bones that ache and throb. The golden light sears my eyes and I cannot decide from one second to the next whether I am too hot or too cold. The singing of the birds is – I know – a joyful sound, but it is too loud. My beard hurts. I know that I am lying down but I feel as though I am flying, and I will admit quite honestly that I am feeling very, very sorry for myself.

"You are burning it."

I am sure that this is what I intended to say although I am not sure that I have said it right. The elf seems to have understood me though as every muscle in him tenses, he freezes and something twitches beneath his eye. He does not snap back at me although I know that he wishes to. I have spent most of the afternoon convincing him that a fever does not mean that I am about to die, but I am not sure that he believes me. Not entirely. Instead he replies through teeth clenched tightly enough to shatter:

"I am not burning it."

He is.

The fire is too hot and the pot too low. It should be simmering, but instead the hearty stew that he means to feed me so that I might regain my strength is boiling into an over seasoned slop. It is making my stomach roil.

Legolas sits in a thick, acrid cloud and tries to hide his streaming eyes, suppressing the urge to cough. It is the reason why he is not allowed to cook our meals.

"You have not drunk your tea," he accuses flatly. "If you have strength to criticise my cooking, you have strength enough for that."

I know to pick my battles when it comes to Legolas, and his voice is hard and cold. He will allow no discussion in this and I begin to regret all of the times that I have forced this brew down his throat. It is vile, truly vile, but if I expect the dratted creature to listen to me ever again I must find whatever strength left to me and choke it down.

Legolas has been perhaps a little over cautious and has piled all of our blankets on top of me as well as both of our cloaks. It takes me a while to wrestle my arm free of the weight and so I am exhausted by the time I am free, but any feeling of triumph is quashed once I catch a whiff of the elf's potion. I can feel him watching me as though his eyes bore into my very heart, and so I take a deep breath and I swear to all of my ancestors to be a far better dwarf from this day onward if only I might drink the tea without choking in front him. Instead, I drink and I choke until my eyes stream.

He cannot be too concerned for my welfare as I can hear him snort very clearly, and when I finally open my eyes he makes no effort at all to look any less smug. I should feel guilty. I should swear to be far more understanding the next time he is being difficult about taking his medicines but I do not feel guilt, and I swear nothing. Legolas makes it very difficult to like him at times.

"You are certain that you will not die from this?" he demands. He sounds angry with me.

"I do not understand why you are being so unpleasant," I complain. "I am not unwell simply to vex you. If I die, I swear to do so with as little fuss as I am able."

It is meant as a light hearted complaint, as an attempt at levity but I feel truly awful and instead it is clumsy and it is cruel. Sickness is not something that Legolas understands, for he has lived entire ages in the company of immortals and although the Darkness has meant that he is no stranger to loss, he knows only a violent passing. His mortal friends are fragile in his eyes. Sickness is a mystery to him and he does not understand the difference between a head cold, a fever or a plague. Illness is all the same as any other, and mortals die from it.

I see how quickly he tries to hide the spark of fear he feels, and so I take a deep breath and try to release it without it becoming a sigh. I fight and wrestle until I am propped upright against Naurwen's saddle, and although the forest spins and lurches about me it settles eventually.

"It is naught but a fever, my friend," I promise him.

He catches my gaze and holds it tightly, reading the truth in me. It is a difficult thing, to hold the gaze of an elf. Few can withstand the weight of so many years but I am well practised now. I hold firm and eventually he believes me. He is satisfied for now that I am not about to keel over, and he nods.

His gaze returns to the ruin of our meal and he spends a few silent moments stirring half heartedly before accepting defeat**.** Legolas sits back on his heels and gives a huge sigh of frustration, the look that I am given is one of bewildered helplessness and I cannot help but laugh, I truly cannot. As gratified as he seems to hear my laughter his annoyance hangs heavily in the air.

"You need to eat something," he sighs.

"Legolas my friend, even if you could cook I am not sure that I could eat."

He screws his face up, sets the pot further away where it is far less offensive and then slides closer to me. He folds his arms about his knees and rests his head upon them, and right now he seems so painfully young to me. He is helpless, and it is a feeling that he does not understand. I am unwell and it is not something that can be fought, argued with or outrun. There is nothing of the feral warrior here right now; instead he is worried and anxious. I prefer the other Legolas – the wild one who makes me feel at all times as though I have nothing to fear.

I settle back down beneath my mountain of blankets and try to find some measure of comfort. Every limb aches, I shiver and sweat and when I close my eyes the darkness there un-moors me so that I feel as though I both sink and sail at the same time. I feel my stomach roil again and so I open my eyes. If I cannot sleep then I will take my mind from my own discomforts.

"How is it –" I begin, clear my throat but when I speak again I sound no better. "How is it that you have lived all of your countless years, that you are so skilled at all things to which you turn your hand, and yet you are so horrible at cooking?"

For a moment I imagine that he might become offended, or that his mood is poor enough for him to bite back at the criticism. Instead he laughs, and it is a true laugh; light and fair. He looks to his feet and shakes his head.

"Truly, my friend, I cannot answer that question. I have been asked it my whole life and no answer has ever been forthcoming – although Lord Ionwë says that I simply refuse to learn in order to be difficult in some way."

I know Lord Ionwë – Legolas' teacher and mentor and closest friend to his father. Ionwë is all but family, but he is also a hard elf who allows nothing but excellence. I can understand his bafflement that Legolas – who is naturally gifted at bow and at battle – has turned out this useless at something as simple as making edible food.

"An army marches on its stomach, it is said. I might have thrown you back once I realised your failings. We are taught to make a feast of anything, for much solace can be found in a warm meal when it is cold and dark."

"But archers sleep in the trees and build no fires, no matter the season. The first time that I shot a bow, Ionwë claimed me as his own," Legolas continues. I let him speak: I know so little of his past and his voice lulls me. "By the time he realised I was beyond hope with a cook pot, it was too late. He had already invested much time on me by then."

"How many years did you count?" I ask. I am not sure why, it hardly lends a thing to our conversation but perhaps I am happy to be silent and let him speak even if I must prompt him. Legolas' voice is soft and has a soothing timbre when he is not being difficult. I am drifting strangely upon solid ground, and his voice anchors me.

Legolas stills at my question, genuinely given pause to think on this. Time is something that the elf loses track of – I am not convinced that he knows what year it is right now. He holds a hand a few inches above his head, which is not helpful at all but I take it to mean that he was young indeed... too young to be training as a warrior, but seemingly not too young to show such promise and skill.

"It is annoying at times, how easily some things come to you Legolas. Perhaps I should find more time to point out where you are lacking, if only to instil some humility in you."

"Should you ever rouse your behind and catch our food instead of leaving it to me every time, then you may feel free to be cruel that I do not cook it. And I earned whatever skill I have, dwarf. I was able from the start, but so was Orthorien and Idhren was close… indeed Faelwen was more skilled than I when she first took up the bow. I worked to be the best, I practised through the night into the dawn so that I would be worthy of my people. There was no time for learning the seasoning of stews or the art of which vegetables go best together."

I am shamed. He has not meant to shame me, but our upbringing has been very different and I know that. I recall my own years of training: endless days of learning precision and strength so that I might wield an axe and be a warrior rather than a wood cutter. I remember soft hands blistered and painful. I remember rapped fingers that were not held just right. But then I also remember the breaks between, when we were taught of stone and the earth and everything else we needed to be good dwarven warriors.

There were dark rooms where we learned of our history with wide eyes, trips into the deepest places where we were taught how to read the stone. I recall days out in the bright sunlight where we learned what could be eaten and what was bad, and then blazing hot kitchens where we learned what to do with our provisions. I was one of many of my own age; I was not as alone as the elf was. My days of learning were hard, but they were spent with other children and there was laughter just as there was difficulty. There was no darkness at our borders, for there was Mirkwood in between. Our upbringing has been different, but of course I do not acknowledge it.

"Well, some of us were granted a more rounded education," I sniff instead. "How to run through trees and shoot well are one thing, statecraft and how to be a prince are another. There are many things in between the two and had you learned them better, you might be more bearable to be around now."

The elf grins. He is very changeable**. **At times he is swift to take offence and quick to anger, and in others he is more playful. I have learned, mostly, how to predict these moods**,** but only in the way the clouds or the sky can be predicted.

"Then perhaps you might teach me where I am lacking, my friend. Feel you any better after your tea?"

I shift and test myself, and I find that I do indeed feel marginally better although I am loathe to admit it. I am thirsty though, and before I can cast about for the water it is handed to me without a word.

Teach him? I would not know where to even start! It is perhaps unkind, but sometimes I imagine that Legolas is little more than an extremely old child. He is an adult, although considered young by his people but he is still learning of things that he should know well by now. He has not travelled, he has not been exposed to other races, he has not learned anything more than how to fight, and how to lead. He is extremely accomplished at both but the gaps in his education are vast, and how do I fill such a void? I am far too ill to think of such things, I can barely keep my mind on anything at all.

I decide to think of nothing but my aches and pains – the elf has a habit of making me think too much and right now it is making my skin feel far too small for my body. My mind trips and dances and forgets things as soon as I think of them. I can see things that are not there. Things that I do not focus upon drift and sway, colours are too vivid, shadows in my peripheral vision taunt me. I would sigh right now but I am not sure that my stomach would handle such a thing.

Legolas watches me drink in silence and takes the water skin from me when I am done. I settle down and close my eyes for a time, and when I hear him speak again there is curiosity in his voice that I cannot deny. "How does it feel, Gimli?" he asks me.

I crack open one eye and find myself beneath the regard of searching blue. "You know the sickness of spider venom?" I ask, and he nods. "It feels nothing like that."

A flutter of a frown passes his brow as he tries to decide whether he is being made fun of, and I huff a laugh that sets my head sailing all over again. I try to describe how I feel and he tries to understand, but I am not sure how well I do. He asks me no more questions though; I am weary and he lets me drift off into fevered dreams with no more interruptions.

I sleep poorly, but I am caught and cannot untangle myself. My dreams are vivid flashes of colour and intense sensation: I feel pressed against stone, then I am falling from an abyss but then the two sensations merge into one and I cannot make sense of it. I am roasted by flames but my blood is ice and I dream of fear and shadows that scream at me in the darkness. I forget myself, I spend an eternity simply lost in thick blackness and I know nothing of what time has passed, nothing of where I am or how I got here but eventually the storm passes and I find myself resting in gentler tides of dream and memory. Eventually I rest, and I know myself again.

When I awake again it is no longer morning, it is not even the afternoon – indeed the sun is setting. I have slept the whole day through. The sky darkens and the air has become chill, the birds sing all the harder for the failing of the day and I blink a long time until the world resolves itself around me. I feel exhausted despite that I have just woken, and weak as a newborn pup but I feel more myself. The medicines of the elves are potent, I will admit to that, but it does not stop me from groaning when I notice another cup of the foul stuff sat beside my head.

I haul myself up until I am upright and I drink the tea, but I also notice a bowl half filled with water and a white cloth left floating, forgotten in the soak. I seek out the elf and find him lounging against a tree of his own, busy with something.

"Your fever worsened," he answers my unasked question. "It raged all of the day and I could not wake you."

I see the ghost of true concern hidden carefully behind the coolness of his eyes. It is not just the tea that has made me feel this way it is because my fever has broken. Legolas has nursed me through it all of the day despite his inexperience.

"Eat this," he hands me the bowl that he has been working on. I take it suspiciously and find that it contains a mash of nothing that I can identify, and so I take a sniff. It smells good... very good indeed.

"It is forest nuts and fruit, roots and herbs all crushed and bound with honey. We make it for our injured or spider-bitten when we cannot risk a fire. Even I can crush fruit, and even I can find honey."

I taste the concoction expecting too much sweetness, but instead I find that it is heartening and good. My stomach growls and I eat in earnest. "You have never made me this before," I accuse, and I see the answer in the darkening of his eyes.

_You have never frightened me as much before._

Instead he says: "Why should I scour the woods and battle bees for honey when I have a dwarf to cook for me? Eat, and when you are done there is water warmed for you to wash with and a clean set of clothes."

Indeed, there are my spare breeches and jerkin washed and drying by the fire. Our cooking pot is scrubbed and holds steaming water, and Legolas rises to give me a measure of privacy.

"You will find someone, and you will be a fine wife one day my friend," I tell him.

"You stink," he informs me archly. "I do it for myself, not for you."

But we share a glance, and he says:

_I am happy to see you awake._

Just as I say:

_Thank you._

Legolas cannot cook. He knows little of mortals and neither does he care to learn. He has never learned anything that he does not need in order to survive in the forest and kill things of the Darkness. Legolas does nothing that is not of function or need, he does not paint or write songs – his enjoyment is in running against the wind, of wildness and knowing his wood. But Legolas knows how to be a fine friend, and he knows what is important. His care for his friends is not something of function, but neither is it something he has had to learn.

I am wrong. I do not need to teach him anything at all. Perhaps he might teach me.

END.

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**As ever, I hope you have enjoyed this. A review is what I'm after, let's be honest. A few words from you is worth more than you will ever know, and reviews keep the one-shots coming whilst my next multi chapter is being wrung out of wherever this nonsense is coming from, so be kind and tap out a few words just down at the bottom there if you enjoyed it (or didn't)**

**I hope you have a wonderful day.**

**MyselfOnly**


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